This One–Track Mind
by manhattan martini
Summary: Everyone knows high-school romances are, like, so overrated. — RubySapphire


**THIS ONE-TRACK MIND  
**_for akumugan at livejournal_

* * *

To be rather frank, he doesn't pay attention in Biology, neither does he try very hard in Physical Education. _Yeah, man, fight the system, _says the black-haired kid that plays electric guitar in the school band – he hasn't figured out where _an electric guitar_ goes, but whatever –, fingering the strings for added coolness. _No, "man", I will not fight the system,_ Ruby replies with a wince, and goes back to pretending he did just not talk to the school burnout.

His reputation is pristine with rumors about his sexuality – so _what_ if he's not interested in the disgustingly cliché girls around him – but he treads through school with ice on his eyes and fire in his mouth, ready to shoot snarky comebacks at whoever dares to tease or mock. The problem is, he has a weakness, and when he finds out about it, so does everyone else. So that's why he just glares and swallows back the _well-your-skirt-doesn't-match-with-your-shirt_ that he already had been readying to spit.

Because, like, for real? He can't deal with this. A dad who keeps pushing him into taking over the family business is enough; the always recurrent obsession with fashion is enough! He can't be wasting time, pretending that he doesn't at all have the most gigantic crush in the history of ever – for a wild, extroverted, ill-mannered girl, at that. Plus, the burnout stares at him like he knows, the smallest of smiles in his pierced lips as he stares at him while chasing after the class representative for 12-B, the one with the blue hair and the mile-long legs.

And Ruby just wants to smash someone's head against a locker—but he just _like_, totally smiles and pretends he's the funny, bizarre kind of straight guy.

* * *

The bathroom on the first floor smells of nicotine and he scrunches up his nose before knocking. There are two voices muttering things like "oh, crap" and "I will kick your ass for this, Gold", and when he opens the door, wearing his favorite poker face, he can almost feel the tension in the air.

"Hey, don't I know you?"

And then Ruby's poker face goes to hell and back as he witnesses the burnout and the school's prettiest girl sitting by the window, cigarettes still in their hands – and he knows who the prettiest girl is because, _everyone knows_ and because she rather likes flirting with him when she's bored. So anyway – Ruby's poker face just sort of breaks into a million pieces as he struggles with the shock and despair, because _why is this guy everywhere_ – "No, I don't think we've met."

Blue's the one who just rolls her eyes and props her feet higher in the windowsill: "I thought you were a teach'," she says and throws her lit cigarette out the window, "I almost got a heart attack there, sweetie pie." Ruby wonders whether it's bad that his only thought is _why are you smoking your perfect teeth will get smeared and you will never be the greatest model ever, you stupid_. "And, of course we've met – " the guy next to her just rolls his eyes before smirking, " – I'm Blue. But everyone knows that, right?"

"Right, princess," he says, "And I'm Gold."

"That's great," Ruby manages with a wince, waving his hand in front of his face – because god knows his dad does as much as to suspect he's started smoking, he'll either get proud and take him out to watch wrestling or whatever men do – or he'll take away Ruby's needles and threads and _what even is there besides sewing?_ Not like he's ever had many friends, anyway. "Why are you smoking inside the school?"

"'Cos it's cool," Gold says, already fishing out another cancer stick and shoving it on his lips. "And cool people do cool things."

"Your definition of cool amazes me," Ruby replies, as dryly as he can, moving to the lavatory, because his hands are full of glue and sparklies – his Visual Arts project is coming along nicely, thanks for asking – but still he can't help but to smile a little. "And why is _she _here?" When Blue opens her mouth to speak, eyes already flashing with anger, he corrects: "Seeing as this is the men's bathroom, dear. Don't get me wrong – fabulous people love other fabulous people."

She breaks into laughter, and he thinks it's the most fab thing he's ever heard.

* * *

So somehow they become friends, even if sometimes all Ruby wants to do is to just grab them by the neck and –

"So, you fancy anyone? How about that wild girl from 11-C?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he evenly replies, the book nearing his nose perilously as he tries reading out loud in order to ignore Gold. It doesn't work – the quiet, simple mathematics are not enough to drown out his loud voice. Blue, from the other side of the table, looks up from doing her nails.

"Yeah?" She narrows her eyes, stares at him dangerously and then blinks as she smiles radiantly. Ruby maintains the cool glare; after all he _is_ the best actor in the school, which explains why he's the lead actor in every school play ever (and his A+ in Drama), and why he never seemingly blows up at anyone, just takes in the insults and the giggles and whatever. "I call bullshit."

"Wh – " he squawks indignantly, gripping at his pencil tighter than ever before. Someone shushes him with a glare, and he recomposes himself and tells himself, _these people are so not worth my time. _And yet, he doesn't know why he keeps hanging out with them. The situation is thankfully averted when he successfully blackmails them with class representatives with blue hair and TAs with the greenest eyes in the school.

* * *

And _yet, _they _know._ Blue always giggles and makes visual contact with Gold every time she – Sapphire, and god it's certainly a sign because their names _match_ – passes by, hair damp from the shower she always takes after soccer practice, cheeks pink from the heat, white towel around her neck as she runs after a blond midget, asking for tips on bets and gadgets and that better be her brother or something, because, for real, he is so not going to lose her to a brat.

"Just ask her out," Blue says, answering texts on her touch-screen cell, the latest fashion in technology, as expected from her, "I bet she likes you back."

"Shut up, queen of heartbreaks," Gold replies with the widest smirk yet, yellow eyes flashing from behind his magazine. He turns to Ruby, then: "Don't ever take amorous advice from her. I did, and now there are at least fifteen girls in this school who throw me stuff when they see me."

"That's because you cheated on them," Blue says dryly, placing her phone in her bag – and Ruby loves her because it's _Prada_ – and turning on her heel, nonchalantly saying that she's got a date with the prettiest boy on Earth.

"She's lying," Gold says, rolling his eyes, "I don't cheat on people. I just don't know how to dump them. There were these twins, right – " Ruby cuts him off with a cringe, then, and starts packing up his stuff from the table. The library is quiet as Gold mutters on about siblings and breasts and something Ruby is quite sure is NC-17, or at the very least T-rated. He wonders why he bothers with someone like these two _whores_ (which they _are_, thank you very much), and Gold answers him like he's read his mind: "Because, one, you'll want tips from me and Blue for when you finally get to the point of getting in her pants, and two, because we are the most awesome people you will ever meet."

Sadly enough, Ruby doesn't find it in him to correct him, although he discards his flamboyant personage in order to throw his bag onto Gold's hand and knee him in the crotch.

* * *

Sometimes she passes by him while he's running after Gold and/or away from Blue. And she's got the most curiously blue eyes, which perfectly match the crimson of his; and he's never called himself a poet, really, because in Creative Writing all he ever has are C's, anyway. But for her, he feels like he could write all his journal away, waste the sheets and the _bic_ pens, throw away his 'inspiration time' and instead of creating dresses, doodling stick figures holding hands. For her, he'll gladly spend an entire class of Biology staring out the window, hoping that she has Physical Ed outside, so that he can see her running around in tight pants and tanktops. For her, he'll get rid of his reputation as possibly-gay, and just start being badass (even if he is no longer used to it) again, in the vain hope that every guy in school stops eyeing her when her skirt goes too high up her tanned thighs, when she blushes and everyone around her just melts.

Sometimes she passes by him while he's doodling creative and high-brow dresses and tuxedos and dreaming of fame; and he forgets all about fashion, and is overtaken by the desire of taking her out to Spring dance, or whatever stupid ball's the school's having. But then he realizes that, yeah, well, relationships are hard work and he's still too young, okay, _so_ _what if he is fifteen and in-love_ – this is his reasoning. But then she just so happens to smile in his direction at him before stepping outside, towards the running tracks, her ass looking perfect in those aquamarine shorts with matching black and turquoise sneakers and my _god_ she would totally look stunning in a miniskirt with black or gray knee-boots and a vintage leather jacket, and he straightens so hard in his chair that his Biology teacher thinks he's having a seizure.

"No, sir, I don't want to go to the bathroom," he says – listening to that blond brat cackling loudly behind him – and resumes looking outside.

* * *

The first words she says to him – ever – are: "You are so gay." And he dies a little on the inside (because a girl so obviously rude and wild wants badassity, he's made studies and graphs about it), but still he manages to woo her into going out with him. He assumes she must have a soft spot for him, otherwise he would have not scored.

They go for movies, and he actually avoids his beloved chick-flicks in order to have her watch sweaty men running across the screen, all testosterone and action, and they spend the rest of the night in his backyard—him struggling not to ask her to model for him, and her very obviously struggling not to insult him. He can see it in her eyes, though: the way she's put eyeliner, the way her horribly slapped-on lipstick clashes with her tanned skin, the way her hair looks shinier and silkier when he finally gathers the courage to touch it.

She splutters and her cheeks go red when his fingertips drag across her short hair. He thinks it's a rather good sign, and deems it safe, then, to kiss her lightly, his lips against hers, his palm on her hair and his other hand around her wrist. He almost feels the heat radiating from her face when he steps back and appreciates it.

"You'd look good if you wore blush, you know."

And Sapphire sort of just stares at him, her eyes wide, before whispering: "You really _are_ gay."

He just –

feels his heart beating a mile an hour, listens to the _kricketot_, feels like the happiest guy on earth, marvels at how warm her skin is, even in an autumn night, takes in the details of her long, natural lashes, of her white, straight teeth, of her larger-than-usual canines, watches the way she looks aside when he looks her in the eyes, squeezes her wrist tighter just to feel her running-wild heartbeat, licks at his lips with a smirk

– rolls his eyes and says: "Does this mean we're dating, now?"


End file.
